


Here comes the sun

by tibrstar



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibrstar/pseuds/tibrstar
Summary: Guess who finished reading American Gods and started feeling some sort of way so here’s a rando with my chaos god(s) you’ll learn more about later





	Here comes the sun

_ “It has been a long winter…’ _

    The words echo in my mind, still seeing the too tall man kneeling before the god I’d come to… what? Love? Pine for? Worship? Whatever the feeling had been, I’m not sure what I’m feeling now. He smiles more often, the dark locks lightening to a dark bronze, slivers of blond peeking through. The older Zorya’s bustle around the house cleaning out a room I’d only glimpsed once. 

    Everyone seems to be happier except for me. 

    And it’s not my fault, change is hard, especially one I hadn’t known to prepare for. The hallways are cleaner, there’s less clutter, there even seems to be more light coming in through the windows. And not just because they’re finally clean, it’s just brighter. Sitting on the stairs, arms wrapped around my knees, I sit and listen to Zorya Utrennyaya and Zorya Verchernyaya as they clean the apartment. 

    In the late afternoon I hear Zorya Utrennyaya murmur something about a nap, and I know she’s going to sleep until the stars begin to fade from the sky. Chin resting on my forearm, I stare down at the open door and feel my throat tighten. Everything was changing and I didn’t want it to. The form of Zorya Verchernyaya shuffled out of the apartment, dragging a bag behind her only to pause. 

    Like a predator sensing prey nearby, her head slowly turned to me, looking me over starting with the tips of my boots, to the red eyes that stared back at her miserable. 

“You have no come to dinner recently.’ When I shrug my shoulders, her eyes narrow. “It is ugly to pout like child when you are grown.’

“ ‘m not pouting.’

    Neither of us say anything, staring at each other for a long while until she finally turns away with a noise of disgust. 

“If you must be mopey, be a helpful mopey, take this downstairs to bins.’

    She doesn’t wait for me to say if I will or won’t, going back into the apartment and leaving the door open. I can smell the dinner that had been cooked, and I already know that it will be terrible but filling, my stomach rumbling its complaint that it would be better than the nothing I’ve eaten so far today. Rolling to my feet, I skim down the stairs, grabbing the bag and lugging it down to the bins behind a short black iron fence. Back again to my perch, fingers cupping my elbows as I continue my vigil. 

    A part of me recognizes that I’m being unfair, my body changes, shifts, constantly. But I’m still me. Always me. He’s not the same person he was before, I can taste it on the air, feel it against my skin. It’s the difference between standing outside with clouds blocking the sun, and then having them wander away to allow its rays to caress your skin. The hallway blurs before me as my eyes fill with tears again, sniffling and blinking to chase them away. 

    Even his footsteps are different as they climb the stairs, despite the fact he’s lost no weight, his tread is less heavy. The clomp of his boots no longer sounds as if he’s attempting to pound his heels through the wood. When he comes into view my heart aches, twists inside of me, and I wrap my arms tighter around my knees. 

“Solnyshka?’ His fingers are lightly curled around the railing, staring up the stairs where I sit in shadow with skin dark as a hyena’s humor. 

“I am here.’

“Come, come play checkers with me.’ He holds out the other hand that’s not gripping the railing. 

    Even that seems different. It is still a strong hand, the knuckles swollen from millennia of hard labor one way or another, I can still see darkened lines where the blood has stained them. And the callouses I’d come to enjoy are still rough on his palm but it’s not the same. The salt in his beard is more honey, and they’re slowly taking over the length of charcoal and ash I’d loved to run my fingers through.

    But it’s almost him, tears falling from my eyes to roll down my cheeks. The heel of my hand roughly brushes them away, extending my legs to reach a lower step and lever myself upright. He is still my friend, even if he is changing. I cannot hold against him what I assume he will accept in me. The words are a hollow mantra, they echo and peter off into soft whispers in my mind as I skulk down the stairs to take his hand. 

    The smile is all wrong, it’s warm, the sharp edge of melancholy has gone away, and I fight the urge to pull my hand away from this almost stranger who knows me. I pull the chair out from the table with the checkered board and begin to gather the white pieces for myself. Only to pause as I realize he hasn’t moved, instead watching my long dark fingers separate the pieces.

“You want to be white?’

“It does not matter.’

    But it does, I can tell, lips tucking slightly beneath my teeth to bite down as I swallow back… I don’t know, I’m not sure what to say but I slide the white checkers towards him, beginning to gather the black ones. They feel cool under my fingertips, a few of them have small pock marks where the cherry of his cigarette had let small embers fall onto them as he moved them. I know I am being selfish, feeling my chest ache again, a lion’s paw resting over my heart and stepping down until all of its weight is balanced on that one spot. 

    There is a thunk on the table and then a clink, my mahogany colored eyes sliding away from watching him set up the white pieces to find a bottle of vodka and a pair of shot glasses. 

“Your misery is making the wallpaper peel away, drink, play.’ Zorya Verchernyaya mutters, though her thin hand lightly pats my shoulder softening the sting of her words. “Is good time, spring time.’

    Taking a breath, holding it, I let it out through my nose slowly and begin setting up my own pieces. She’s right, I know she’s right, but I can’t help it, the long dark lines of my body stiff as I finish setting up and stare down at the board. A shot glass enters my line of sight, directly on the board, spilling a few drops as it is filled to the brim. I snort with a tired sort of amusement, lifting it and my gaze to meet his. 

“Drink with me.’ His smile is crooked, and I can’t help smiling back as I toss my shot back when he does. “Is good! For every lost checker, drink.’

“Twice for kings!’ I shoot back, watching him refill the glasses.

“Yes, yes, is very good!’ The tip of his finger slides a white checker towards my side of the board. “And I will smoke, as long as you do not mind.’

    My smile freezes on my lips, and I shake my head before looking down at the board. He’d taught me this game months and months ago, and I will focus on that rather than his asking to smoke. In his own home. He’d never asked before, and it’s another change I do not like but can’t stop. Moving a black piece, my finger lingers before lifting away. His move is almost immediate, and I begin to play the same way. Reckless, and fast, the checkers move across tiles, the shot glasses shifted this way and that but not removed from the board. 

“First blood!’ I crow, snatching up the piece, and the shot glass to take the drink. “You’ve lost.’

“So shots are victory?’ His own glass dangles empty from his fingers. “Is good, but you’ve not won yet. 

    Snorting, I watch him refill the glasses, placing them back on the board. He takes two of my pieces in a single move, tossing back both glasses with a pleased hum. But I am the first to make a king, tucking it away on his side of the board to help my other checkers find their crown. 

    Despite the fact checkers are piling up on the table next to the board, neither of us seem overly concerned. It is a game, there are no bets, and the shot glasses slide around leaving the stained wood slick. Only after I move my piece on the board do I realize my mistake, see the trap that he has left for me. I watch mouth hanging open as he hops his piece over all but my last, with the piece waiting patiently for me to move. Either direction the piece is lost.

“Kuma nina…’ my eyes move over the board and then up to watch as he tilts back the bottle and takes long swallows.

“Again?’

    I’m still looking at the board as if it were a cursed thing, muttering mother fucker again under my breath. But it was a fair game, and my skin feels hot from the vodka. Shaking my head, I hold onto the back of the chair and lean away to pop my spine. He looks tired, not in the same way, not worn and ragged around the edges, but just… sleepy. 

“You are not Czernobog.’ I finally say after staring at him contemplatively for a long time. 

“I am not.’ The crooked smile curves his lips. “And I am, in small way.’

“I do not like it.’

“I know… I’m sorry,’ 

    As my throat tightens, I can feel my entire body clench as if it were trying to wring the tears from my every pore. Distantly I’m aware that the muscled form is shifting, softening… Shoving at the back of the chair, I slide off it backwards and stand, fighting to hold the body I’ve taken to try and ease my hurt. It is strong because I want to feel strong, I do not want to feel soft and helpless, and lost… but I am lost, my feet stumbling as I fight the change, my limbs disproportionate and burning making me cry out. 

“You are hurting yourself…’ His voice is closer than it should be, the same low rumble but it’s missing the harsh rattle to it that I found so soothing. 

    A hand gently clasping my arm startles me, my own hands falling away from my face as I jerk away from the touch. I can see it still close and I swat at it with a hand that is mottled light and dark and shades in between, the middle fingers are long and heavy knuckled, but the fore and pinkie are squat plump things. Shaking my hand violently I can see the bones shifting as if the tendons that try to hold them are loosely connected. 

“Solnyshka please…’

“You don’t get to call me that!’ I snap, my voice breaking like hard frost, a deep baritone disrupted by a wheedling tenor note. 

    Coughing, my throat aching, I back away from him on unsteady legs until I find the wall at my back.  Out of the corner of my eye I can see Zorya Polunochnaya standing in the doorway from the hall watching quietly. He takes a quiet step toward me and I flinch, a hand reaching up to clutch at the fabric over my chest. I can feel the tissue beneath the skin writhing as it shifts between the heavy fatty tissue of breasts, and the leaner fare of hard pectoral. 

“Bielebog… be gentle with them, they will hurt you.’ The soft whisper was followed by cat paw footsteps as Zorya Polunochnaya cane near me and skimmed her fingertips over my temple. “You did not know about my brothers.’

“No.’ I whimper, my voice wavering like water, dipping low and cresting high. “He didn’t tell me, and he always complained about his brother. I didn’t realize…’

“Surely you have one in your pantheon, the heifer and the lion?’

“Yes…’ I feel foolish now, it is not common by any means. But Sekhmet and Hathor are different, it’s blood lust that changes her tone. We don’t have seasonal deities that shift like this. “When does he come back?’

“When the weather turns cold, and the leaves wither.’

    We are both down on our haunches, her fingers gently stroking over my skin. I cannot look her in the eyes despite the fact that there is no judgment in her tone. I’d always assumed that Bielebog simply came from somewhere else, not that he took over. I had thought when Bielebog came, I could go away with Czernobog as he chased the winter, but that wasn’t possible after all.  

    A hand moves into my line of sight, slowly as if worried I’ll bite. It is a fair concern, but instead I follow the line up until I can see the almost familiar face, with those unfamiliar blue eyes looking down at me concerned. When the rough fingertips touch my cheek I feel myself give in, my cheek rounding as it rests against his palm. His thumb brushes gently across my eye to remove the tears clinging to my lashes. 

“I am sorry.’

“No,’ I shake my head, wiping at my face with my hands, taking in deep breaths trying to get my head straight on my shoulders. “I should have asked, or… or I don’t know? I should not have treated you badly, Czern- Bielebog.’

“I  _ am _ both, but now the light shines during the spring is all.’ The smile I offer is still a little shaky, but the tears have finally stopped as his thumb moves to gently caress back and forth on my cheek. “But we are friends, and you like that I can be dark…’

    My eyes widen, the sky blue eyes are darkening closer to the storm grey that I know so well. Shaking my head, I fall forward and smile when he catches me. He still smells like cigarettes, and vodka, but beneath that is rich dark earth, and the crisp smell of cold rain. It is still a good smell, even if it’s not the one I’ve loved for so long, my arms wrapping around his torso and pressing as close as possible. Beneath all of it is still the smell of old blood, a watery chuckle escaping me.

“So I will be dark for you.’ He finishes, wrapping his arms around me as he half falls backwards so I am pulled onto his lap.

“Is good.’ I grunt out, mimicking him and making him laugh. 

    It is a good laugh, even Zorya Polunochnaya laughs though it is soft and sweet like a brook in the dark of night. She sits at Bielebog’s knee and smiles at me.

“Will you stay for spring?’

“I think I will.’ 

    I push gently until I can sit up enough to see them both. Loss has never been something I handled well, but that pain has finally passed, my eyes are golden and shining against honey warm skin. Bielebog’s fingers feel nice gently combing through the long waves and thick curls that have grown as I calmed. My body is neither sex and both, my expression serious as I meet Bielebog’s eyes. 

“But I was promised a coat.’

**Author's Note:**

> Some content is spoilery for the fic I’m writing outside this one shot feels feat but you won’t really recognize them until you see them later so! 
> 
> Thanks for reading


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